Mom is tired a lot.
Not the normal tired—the kind where you yawn and go to bed early. This tired is different. It sits heavy on her shoulders and follows her around the house. Sometimes it makes her quiet. Sometimes it makes her sharp.
I never know which one I'm going to get.
In the mornings, I watch her face to see if today is a good day. If her eyes look soft, I talk more. If they look far away, I stay small. I've learned how to do that without being told.
She still makes breakfast, but sometimes she forgets what I like. I don't remind her. It's not important. I can eat anything.
When I talk, she smiles—but it's like she's smiling at someone behind me. I try harder then. I tell longer stories. I ask more questions. I want her to come back.
Sometimes she does.
Sometimes she doesn't.
When she snaps, it scares me—not because she yells, but because it happens so fast. I never see it coming. I always think it's my fault, even when she says it's not.
She hugs me after. Always. She says she's sorry and holds me too tight, like she's afraid I'll disappear. I hug her back and promise I won't be mad.
I'm not mad.
I'm just confused.
At night, I hear her moving around when she's supposed to be sleeping. I peek from my door, but she doesn't see me. I go back to bed and pretend I was never awake.
In the morning, she looks worse.
I don't tell anyone. I don't want her to get in trouble. I know she loves me. I know she's trying.
I wish I knew how to help.
So I clean my room without being asked. I make my own snacks. I stay quiet when she's tired.
Because if I'm good enough, maybe she won't be so tired tomorrow